


mapmakers of embodied gods

by saltandlimes



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bloodplay, But only a tiny bit, Episode: s03e06 Dolce, M/M, Public Blow Jobs, blatant misuse of catullus, but he'd probably approve given the context.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-12-02 06:17:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11503491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltandlimes/pseuds/saltandlimes
Summary: When Will finds Hannibal sitting in the empty gallery, staring at a long beloved painting, he doesn't know what to expect. All he knows is that their relationship has finally come to a head, and he needs to find the lines that separate them from one another.





	mapmakers of embodied gods

**Author's Note:**

> So I _finally_ actually finished a hannigram fic, which, given the corpses of half started fics that litter my computer, is a genuine accomplishment. 
> 
> If you want more detailed translations of the Latin than are given in the text, I've stuck them in the endnotes!

_Incipit_

_Odio et amo. Quare id faciam fortasse requiris_  
_Nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior_

_I hate and love. Why do I do this, you ask_  
_I do not know, yet I feel it happening, and it is excruciating_

Will can see him, just the curve of his lowered head as he sketches. His hair has changed a little since Will last saw him, softening at the curve of his neck. In these clothes, so normal, so human, he looks like a small thing, bowing before the god of his aesthetics. Will smiles to himself, a tiny, sad smile that only just reaches the edges of his eyes. He can feel the weight of his life press against his lips, trying to stop them from curving upwards. 

Will takes a deep breath, chest expanding against the bruises from where Chiyoh pushed him off the train. He steps forwards settling himself down onto the bench, not looking over. He feels as though, if he turns, he will finally see his own face looking back at him, with nothing else between them but the broken mirror of his own life staring back at him. 

Hannibal turns to him. 

He can feel the weight of that gaze on him, as though it is staring out from the depths of a million years, as though reaching out to pull him into the darkness. Will aches, his stomach turning over, heart pounding in his chest. Then Hannibal begins to speak. 

The words drift across him. Will wonders, abstractly, which of them come from his own mouth, and which are clawing their way out of Hannibal’s throat to echo in the silent air of the museum. 

_“Now is the hardest test,”_ Hannibal tells him, and this time, Will knows that the words come only from Hannibal. There is no chance that he would have said that. He has already faced his test. He has fought his demons, and been consumed by them. 

He looks at Hannibal, and the face that looks back at him is not his own. Instead, it is the missing piece of his brain, the tiny corners that were burned away by disease and inattention. 

“You left me your heart,” he says. “You ripped it out of your own chest to leave it bleeding on the floor of a church, there for me, and only me.”

“I did,” Hannibal responds. 

“Was that rage or forgiveness?” Will asks. 

“Neither.” Hannibal’s voice is softer now, just a low burr of sound that echoes up from his chest. 

“ _Ille mi par esse deo videtur,/ille, si fas est, superare divos_ ” Will quotes. “What sacrifice is it for a god to leave his heart on the floor of a chapel?”

“Can there be any greater sacrifice than that, if the idol of his devotion rejects his offering?” Hannibal is so close, close enough that Will can smell the blood that’s caked on one side of his face. “A god does not make an offering lightly.”

Will slides closer himself, feeling the heat of Hannibal’s skin just beyond his own. Hannibal’s sketchbook is closed, set to one side, and there is nothing between them but the empty air, the scent of pain and perversion. 

It is too much. Will slips off the bench, sliding fluidly to the floor. Hannibal looks down at him, and for a moment, he seems impassive. But Will can see the faint glimmers of light in his eyes, the way his lips purse just the smallest amount. He slips himself between Hannibal’s spread legs, looking up. 

“A god should have a worshiper, not an idol,” he finds his mouth saying. 

Hannibal reaches out, fingers smudged by the charcoal he has been working in. His hand hovers beside Will’s face, almost touching. Then his thumb comes to rest underneath Will’s chin, pressing into the soft flesh there. He tips Will’s face upwards. That single point of connection between their skin burns, sparks of light coalescing inside Will’s mine and settling at the barrier between his and Hannibal’s bodies. 

“I do not want you to worship me,” Hannibal tells him. 

Will thinks to himself, brain muddy with the feel of Hannibal’s touch, that this may be the most honest thing that Hannibal has ever said to him. 

“What do you want? For all those miles I traveled, for the graves I touched, the dirty secrets of your past I unearthed, I could never quite see how I fit into the puzzle. I became the puzzle instead, became you, and now, I am not sure how to separate myself out from the god and become a man again.”

Hannibal sighs. 

“ _ut iam nec bene velle queat tibi, si optima fias,/ nec desistere amare, omnia si facias_ ,” He sighs out the words. “You cannot wish me well, even now that you see me clearly, nor can you stop your heart from beating for me?”

“It is not my heart that beats, but ours.” 

“Perhaps a god does not wish for an idol, but only someone to share in his victories. The point of Mount Olympus is lonely and high.”

Will bends his head, touching his lips to the tip of Hannibal’s finger. He flicks his tongue out, tasting salt and humanity. 

“Again, I ask you the same question. I feel, sometimes, as though there are nothing but the same questions floating between us, revolving in an unanswered circle. How am I myself, and none other?”

Hannibal finally cups Will’s cheek, holding him there. His eyes are soft when he looks down, a strange look that Will has never seen before. It might be kindness.

“It will be a process of differentiation, of mapping the boundaries of you and I. A great journey, I think.”

His legs are wide, and Will nestles himself further between them. The more he feels Hannibal against his skin, the stronger the line between them becomes. Hannibal’s hand on his face is Hannibal, and not Will. The heat of Hannibal’s skin is his, and his alone. Will leans forwards, laying his cheek high up on Hannibal’s thigh. 

“Are we to be the cartographers of our own souls, then?” he asks. 

Hannibal’s breath escapes him in a rush. Above him, Will can feel as Hannibal’s chest collapse a little, even as his hips stiffen. 

“The mapmakers of embodied gods,” he whispers.

Will almost laughs. He is no god, but rather a demon that has been molded and twisted by Hades, shaped into a fury and then brought home to his maker in shattered pieces. Yet there is something in the rush of Hannibal’s voice, the flex of his hips, that makes him want to believe Hannibal is right.

He rubs his fingers along the inseams of Hannibal’s trousers, tracing the curves of his thighs. They are strong, muscle firm even through the fabric, and Will wonders what Hannibal has been doing all these weeks, so far away from that he cannot even imagine it. 

Above him, Hannibal’s breath has sped up, harsh in the still air of the museum. It is the only sound between them, the only sound in the hall. There are no footsteps from outside, no one to disturb them. 

Will rises up on his knees, fully between Hannibal’s legs now. He looks up, and there is awe written across Hannibal’s face. Will presses his cheek to the slight curve of Hannibal’s belly. He stays there for a moment, fingers on Hannibal’s thighs and face buried in Hannibal’s shirt. It is strangely safe here, wrapped up inside the monster from his dreams and cradled by the only thing he has left to want. 

His fingers drift higher up on Hannibal’s legs, so high that he can feel where Hannibal’s trousers trousers stretch over his balls, can feel the thickness of Hannibal’s cock. He isn’t fully hard, Will is certain of that, but beneath his touch Hannibal twitches. 

“Will…” Hannibal breathes. 

It’s not lust, not exactly. Not the sound of Hannibal’s voice the moment before he tries to convince Will to tear apart flesh and bone. That is pure, animal need. This is something deeper. It is Hannibal’s soul reaching out to his and wrapping its dark fingers around his own. 

And Will’s soul has stopped struggling.

He cups Hannibal’s cock, giving his belly a kiss. Then he pulls away, just enough to open Hannibal’s trousers. Hannibal lifts his hips a little, and Will pulls down his trousers and boxer briefs to expose him to the quiet air of the museum. 

Hannibal is thick, cock heavy as it smacks against his belly. Will has never really thought about this moment, beyond knowing it is inevitable, but now that it’s here, he takes his time to catalogue the differences between their bodies. Hannibal is uncut, head of his cock just beginning to peep out of the foreskin. There’s a thick line of hair leading down from his belly to his cock, and Will brushes it with his nose. 

It smells of sweat and warmth and the spicy scent of Hannibal’s skin. Will flicks out his tongue, tasting Hannibal’s skin, and Hannibal groans. 

“You do want this?” Will asks, suddenly hesitant in the face of Hannibal’s need. 

“There are no words in all the languages of the world for how much I want you,” Hannibal sighs the words, hips flexing again. His cock brushes the curve of Will’s throat, and Will shivers. 

Hannibal’s balls are heavy in his hand when he cups them. He lets his fingers tease over them for long seconds, stroking and mapping the contours of their shape. When he lets his hand drift further back, Hannibal spreads his legs wider, baring himself for Will. Will presses tentatively behind them, and Hannibal groans again, this time louder. 

“Oh,” Will gasps out, surprised at the response. He flicks his tongue out again, this time just touching the head of Hannibal’s cock. It jumps again. 

Hannibal tastes salty, sweat dried on his skin. Will licks his lips clean, then goes back for more. He wraps his free hand around Hannibal’s cock, then traces the head across his mouth, painting his lips with the slight slickness that has made it’s way out from the slit. 

He looks up at Hannibal when he cleans his mouth again, sucking first one lip and then then next into his mouth. Hannibal’s eyes are flame, blazing down at him, a million starburst exploding in a single glance. Will grins.

“You taste incredible,” he whispers. 

Hannibal actually shakes at those words, chest heaving and his entire body tensing. For a moment, Will wonders if he’s going to come, just at that, but Hannibal’s knuckles whiten where they’re clenched on the edge of the bench, and he finally relaxes a little. 

His cock is red now, thick and full. Will goes back to it, sucking the tip into his mouth. He’s never really done this before. He had his mouth fucked once behind a bar in college, on his knees for some man who said he’d return the favor, but never did.

This is not the same. He takes his time exploring the feel of Hannibal in his mouth, tongue tracing the thick vein along Hannibal’s cock, and flicking underneath his foreskin. His fingers press harder behind Hannibal’s balls. 

There is something powerful about being like this, about having Hannibal, of all people, in his mouth. Will sucks a little, trying to draw out more of Hannibal’s taste. He wants to fill himself up with it, to memorize the flavor so that whenever he remembers this moment, it will well up in his mouth, drowning him in memories. 

Hannibal’s hand comes to rest in his hair. His fingers twine through Will’s curls, and Will finds himself moaning around Hannibal’s cock. There’s a slight tug, but Will resists, pulling himself away just far enough to slide down Hannibal’s dick. He can’t take the entire thing into his throat, can’t quite figure out the mechanics of it, but it stretches his lips wide, making him ache. He moans again. 

“Will…” Hannibal gasps out from above him. The tug on his hair is harder now. Will pulls off reluctantly. He glances up at Hannibal, almost reproachful. 

“I’m going to come if you don’t stop,” Hannibal tells him, lips red and bitten looking. 

“I know,” Will replies. 

“I don’t… are you sure you want…” It’s the first time he’s ever seen Hannibal at a loss for words. 

“Let me taste you, Hannibal. Let me drink your come, feast on your body.” The words come to Will as though wrenched from the depth of his soul. 

Hannibal jerks again, and this time, a few drops of come slip free from his cock. Will moans, and pulls away from Hannibal’s hand. Hannibal lets him go. Will wraps his lips back around Hannibal’s cock, sucking hard. He works his hand up and down Hannibal’s shaft, so fast that he can feel the vibrations through Hannibal’s skin. Hannibal whimpers. 

Then Will’s mouth is filling up, salt and sweet mixing together, coating the inside of his lips and the backs of his teeth. He swallows, but Hannibal is still coming, and he has to catch the last spurts of come on his lips.

His chin is wet, and Will realizes that there’s come dribbling across it, drops making their way from his lips to the curve of his jaw. He licks at his mouth, but he can’t quite get it all. 

Before he can raise a hand to wipe himself clean, Hannibal is pulling him upwards, lifting Will to sit sprawled across him. Will meets Hannibal’s eyes, and there is still fire gleaming there. Hannibal uses the hand he has cupped behind Will’s head to pull him in. For an instant, Will thinks Hannibal is about to kiss him. But instead, Hannibal’s own tongue darts out, licking Will’s chin. He never looks away from Will’s eyes. 

Will moans this time, and finally, finally, Hannibal swallows the sound from his lips. His mouth, once it’s against Will’s own, is raw. There are small, bitten sores covering it, and underneath Hannibal’s come, Will can taste blood, the metallic coldness of it seeping from Hannibal’s mouth to his own. He wants more. 

He digs his teeth into the curve of Hannibal’s bottom lip, just barely splitting open one of the cracks that is already there. Hannibal growls as Will licks at the cut, and Will grins against his mouth. The taste of Hannibal’s blood mingles with his come, and Will sighs. He sucks contentedly for a few long moments. Then he pulls away, smiling at Hannibal. 

“Where do we go from here?” He asks. His voice is a rasp, throat sore and almost raw. 

“Anywhere that we can imagine. We drawn the lines of our own existences, mark the routes we will travel together. Where would you like to go?”

A thousand possibilities wheel before Will’s eyes. They glimmer likes stars, each one beautiful and unique. He kisses Hannibal again, quickly, sharply. 

“To our new heaven,” he replies. 

_Finis_

**Author's Note:**

> +Find me on tumblr at [saltandlimes](http://saltandlimes.tumblr.com/)
> 
> +The first passage is Catullus 85.
> 
> + _Ille mi par esse deo videtur,/ille, si fas est, superare divos_. "He seems to be equal to a god/he, if I may, surpasses all the gods," Catullus 51. 
> 
> + _ut iam nec bene velle queat tibi, si optima fias,/ nec desistere amare, omnia si facias_. "And so, it (my heart) does not want to wish you well, if you are perfect/nor can stop loving you, if you inflict all wounds," Catullus 75


End file.
